the funeral of the rose

18Feb09

A rosebud quietly grows inside her.

Tiny, and soft.

It waits for a letter, a word, a whisper.

Carried, and cradled.

She waits for a nudge, a kick, a temper.

Warm, and sweet. 

It fills her cavity with fragrance, perfume, an elixir.

Blossom, and blood.

It’s thorns jet out, sharp, they prick her.

Sting, and pain.

She crumples and squeezes, control, a fixer.

Burst, and stain.

The damage leaves bruises, purple, and sinister.

Cold, and confused.

It dies slowly, wilting, within her.

Empty, and numb.

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